


I'm Going To Miss You When You're Gone

by ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon



Series: Altean Bedtime Stories [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt, I'm Sorry, Langst, Love, M/M, Poor Keith, Sad, So much angst, They're not talking, hurt keith, klance, klangst, poor lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon/pseuds/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon
Summary: Keith gets lonely when his boyfriend ignores him. He wants things to go back to the way they were, but deep down he’s not sure if he’ll ever see Lance’s smile again.





	I'm Going To Miss You When You're Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Big thankyou to Cinnamon+child for Beta-ing this for me. 
> 
> I've been a little off sorts at the moment, life wants to get in the way like always. But fingers crossed the motivational ball is once more rolling and I'll be pumping out more works and finishing overs. For now though, enjoy this angsty one shot that I finally got around to cleaning up.

Morning. 

How many mornings had it been since the phone call? The panic in Shiro’s voice on the other end of the line, trying to make sense of the noise, the shouting.  
How many mornings had it been since Keith had woken beside Lance? When he was still caught back in the moment of all the shouting, the arguing, the blood rushing in his head because he can’t hear properly, head resonating with the hate that had passed between the pair of them the last time they spoke. 

The last time they spoke… 

It wasn’t a matter of mornings.  
It was weeks. _Three? Four?_

Keith had lost count. Not that he had been counting really.  
Time wasn’t a concept he thought much to, now that he was preoccupied with the emptiness those weeks held, thoughts only for the boy he lays beside and the silence between the two of them; Lance not ready to reply when Keith calls out to him, trying to mend the bridge that has burnt, broken, collapsed. 

Lance had changed since they last spoke. He had lost his drive, his motivation. Now, he was simply a shell of his former self. Just arms and legs and a body that went through the motions of living, without a smile, a joke, a word to share with Keith who could only watch on in heartbreak.  
No matter how much Keith pleaded with him, Lance wouldn’t smile, he wouldn’t joke. There was no conversation held; simply words from the Mullet and a lowered head from the boy who hadn’t met his eye since. 

Lance’s self-restraint was torture; torture for Keith, rubbing salt in his wounds, reminding him that it was his fault. 

After all, _he_ had caused this. He brought the pain, the silence, the emptiness of a boy who was once so full of life and laughter and happiness. With Keith’s words he had shattered the being of the very boy he had once loved with his entire being, with his entire heart.  
Keith was the one who had brought about Lance’s suffering. 

Keith was the one who had destroyed him... 

Suddenly Lance cried out, lashing out with his arms without warning as he reached upwards, fighting with the duvet that trapped him to the bed, hands clawing to the ceiling as he fights for air.  
Another nightmare. 

Another memory. 

The boy let his arm drift slowly back to the bed, the shock of adrenaline gone just as quickly as it had come. He waited, gasping, fighting the shock yet not the tears that were spilling from the rims of Lance’s eyes. Red and puffy, were shadowed as he stared up at the ceiling. Hazy, unfocused from where Lance sees beyond the room, the pale white ceiling and beyond to something far away, out of reach. 

Keith watched him silently, restraining the urge to reach over and hug the man. To wrap his arms around the boy and pull him back against his chest, nuzzle his chin into the crook of his neck and whisper gently, _“its okay, it never happened. I never said those things._

_“I never hurt you.”_

But Keith can’t hug him, can’t kiss him or comfort him. He knew, if he even tried, he would only be ignored, rejected with a shudder; as if the simple idea of Keith, touching the one he loves, is repulsive. 

Keith let out a sigh, his eyes too, staring towards the white far above hoping to see more than just the layers of paint. 

If this was a usual morning Lance would be up out of bed, long before Keith had awoken. He would have himself a shower, taking himself through a strict beauty regime that Keith would always tell him he didn’t need. But whether his boyfriend thought it necessary or not, Lance would always follow his routine. Sometimes he’d make breakfast or he’d run to the café across the road to pick it up fresh.  
But no matter what, he’d always crawl back into bed and snuggle up against Keith for a few minutes just before the second alarm went off. 

But this morning was not a normal morning. It hadn’t been for a while now. In fact it hadn’t been normal since…. Well, _since they last spoke._

Lance breathed out a sigh, using the back of his hand to wipe his eyes quietly, sniffing back the rest of the tears before they could run down his face. 

The boy shut his eyes again, his fingertips circling into the duvet until they were white. Another moment. Another breath before he dragged it off his body and forced himself to sit up, without so much as a glance towards where the Mullet still lay.  
Keith had been awake a while. Idly, he even wondered if he had even fallen asleep, but it didn’t matter either way. It was just a thought, quickly abandoned as he turned his attention back to Lance. He was still sat upon the bed, his legs dangling over the edge, shivering at the cold morning air that filled the bedroom, despite the sunshine that poured in through the window. It was cast a look that Keith knew was Lance cursing the sun’s very existence, a thousand questions all asking the same thing. 

_Why?_

Keith knew that he’d rather just stay wrapped up and sleep. Better yet, not having woken at all, or perhaps woken and realised that their argument was just as dream and this was in fact a normal morning. Keith would still be asleep, or he’d grab Lance and pull him back down to the warmth of the bed and tell him _“five more minutes.”_

But it was not a normal morning.  
It hadn’t been since they last spoke. 

This morning was another filled with silence and emptiness, another that demanded Lance leave the bed, if only to stop the others from storming in and demanding that he sort himself out. They came to the house regularly, bringing food for Lance who refused to leave and Keith who couldn’t.  
The two of them were stuck, occupying the same space. 

Something would give eventually.  
Keith held onto the hope that something would. 

Keith stared at his boyfriend’s sagging shoulders, his lithe frame frail and bony, and his skin pallor beneath the bronze hue that had lost its shine; greasy and imperfect from the lack of care he gave himself. 

Lance looked ill. 

He didn’t hold form to his body, letting himself slouch forward on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around himself, his thin, anorexic stature easy to see beneath the material of Keith’s top: one that Lance had claimed years ago, when they first began dating.  
He had noted it as a ritual to wear it to bed since the first night he claimed it, only letting Keith wear it when his smell had worn off. It was extremely cute and sweet, sort of how a girlfriend nicks a hoodie to wear out; a statement of their relationship and the closeness they share with one another.  
Keith couldn’t say no. 

But now, looking at the My Chemical Romance T that swamped Lance, he could only feel a melancholy sadness he couldn’t lift off his heavy heart, pain as if someone squeezed it mercilessly. 

“Lance—” 

The boy stood up slowly, turning his head towards the bed. His eyes skimmed over Keith and the concerned expression on his face, his own eyes shining with something... but in a flash it was gone, replaced by the dull grey emptiness of depression.  
The despair on Lance’s face all but broke Keith’s heart, words lodged in this throat, unable to voice a thousand apologies he could never choke out, no matter how desperate he was for Lance to hear him. 

And the moment was gone.

Lance turned his back on Keith, standing as he began to strip from the man’s stolen top. He took it off and threw it into the wash basket in the corner of the room that already piled high with other clothes. He didn’t bother with chores anymore, leaving that to those who came to the house to keep them company as they refused to leave.  
Keith watched him, watching the deliberate way Lance kept his back to him as he took himself into the ensuite, closing the door behind him, the lock sliding in place with a deafening _click._

Keith got up himself. He was already dressed, having been just lying on top of the covers, not actually sleeping.  
He seemed to be doing that a lot nowadays. He used to lounge about the place and nap when he could, but now he struggled to close his eyes and drift off into sweet oblivion. Their home had become cold and uncomfortable.  
When Keith shut his eyes, his mind would be full of dreadful memories; ones that he didn’t want to remember.  
Things he wished he had never seen and hoped to never see ever again... 

Keith left Lance to his shower, heading downstairs to the large, living room of their house. Once filled with so many happy memories, it was as cold and unforgiving as the blank stares Lance gave him when Keith caught the man looking. 

As Keith stood there, soaking up the blues of their living room, his mind revisited mundane memories, now as precious to him, more so than the air he breathes. He sees himself on the sofa, Lance cuddled up beside him, playfully taking his mobile so attention is on him and not work or YouTube, or whatever had the Mullet’s attention.  
He looked to the kitchen, to the radio that played the morning songs. He’d slow-danced with Lance there, once upon a happier time, fuelled by wine and love. 

Keith looked to the garden, to the vegetable garden that Lance worked in on days he had time to himself, to the chicken roost that he’d bought, to bring a little bit of his childhood into his new home with Keith as they started a new chapter in their life.  
So many wonderful, _painful_ memories. 

Keith sat himself on the sofa, listening to the silence of the empty living room.

If anyone looked, they wouldn’t realise anything had changed. Everything was as it always was: The cooking magazines were still strewn across the coffee table, Lance’s slippers at the foot of the sofa where he took them off whilst watching TV. The remote slipping down between the sofas cushions were it hid every time either one wanted to watch a different channel or film.  
The kitchen immaculate, from where Lance had kept it pristine, the task now turned to Hunk who came around daily, to cook lunch or dinner or both. 

Everything was as it was. 

The only difference was the photographs on the shelf.  
In a fit of rage Lance had knocked them all flat and face down so Keith could no longer see them. He hadn’t the heart to stand them back up, not when Lance wasn’t ready to look at the happiness in them. 

Despite Lance’s unwillingness, Keith stood from the sofa. He reached out, lifting the light oak frame from where is laid on the shelf, a thin layer of dust laid across its back as testimony to the time since Lance’s anger. 

_A photograph._

That was all it took for the tears to burst Keith’s dam of restraint. He clutched the solid wooden frame tight in his hands, able to see the ghostly reflection of his face in the thin sheen of glass that covered it. He looked past his own, tear-stained reflection and stared upon Lance’s face that had been caught in the moment of perfection, pressed lovingly against his face in the photograph that caught the happiness of a moment so precious, so fragile… 

Keith stared at the engagement ring that glinted in the light of the sun, that perfect summer’s day three months ago, lazy as they laid beside one another to the rocking of the boat, a simple towel thrown over their bodies as they came down from the high of sex. Keith had asked, casually, as if asking Lance if they wanted to go for ice cream.  
The moments that followed were filled with giggles and schoolyard kisses that left the blushing and so much in love that Lance had forgone clothes to stand up and yell to his friends on shore. 

The ring wasn’t anything special, no family heirloom or precious gem from the deepest depths of the ocean. Just a white sapphire in a small silver band; it’s simplicity a dedication to Keith’s love. Simple and forever. 

But they’d lost their forever.  
It had been stolen from them with harsh words and bitter rejections that sent tempers flying and eyes blind as the world sped past them in a haze. Then came the inevitable _stop._  
And when the world stopped spinning, they were no longer together. 

No matter how much the living room, the kitchen, the house looked the same; _everything had changed._

Keith didn’t leave the house any more. Lance sometimes went out, but that was a rare affair, if it ever happened. Anything the pair wanted was usually brought by the others. Hunk would bring food every other day. Allura would stop in as often as she could whilst she wasn’t busy at work and Pidge would always drop in after every one of their lectures at University. Shiro and Matt would come with them, the oldest driving them as he commuted to and from work.  
Coran came a little less often than everyone else as he was busy working at the Hospital. 

But without fail everyone would come to the house on a Friday night.  
Lance and Hunk would cook a large meal together, and then they would all sit and chat or watch TV or just keep each other company, breathing life back into the house that was otherwise empty and cold and unwelcoming. They’d pretend that the world wasn’t that little bit colder, eyes on Lance, who still refused to acknowledge Keith. 

Suddenly, Lance’s voice called out from upstairs. “Mullet, can you grab me a towel?”  
Keith’s head snapped to the sound of Lance’s voice calling out to him, heart fluttering in his chest at the recognition of Lance’s pet name for him. His chest tightened, his body moving in a rush of limbs, climbing the stairs, steps taken two at a time to close the distance between the pair of them sooner.  
He couldn’t hear the shower flowing any more, just the sound of the pipes in the walls draining away the water. 

Yet as Keith approached the door to the bathroom, he felt his steps begin to falter, some invisible force keeping his hand from the door. Had Lance really called out for him?  
Or was it still just Keith’s mind torturing him, making him thing that Lance still needed him, was still holding onto something despite the distance between their hearts? 

Or was it a mistake on Lance’s part. Had he been so lost in his own thoughts that he had believed everything was normal again, calling out almost instinctively in a moment he was lost in memories or thoughts of other things, not wrapped in silence, caught forever in the moment of harsh words that broke both of them in that single moment. 

Slowly, Keith placed his hand on the wood and pushed gently, holding his breath as the door swung open.  
Lance was stood next to the shower, his lower body hidden underneath the wrap of a towel. His skin, slightly tinged red in places remained so from where he had the shower water too hot, the white scar tissue visible against the bronze.  
Steam collected in the room, rolling off his body like a cape of smoke, furling around him. There was water all over the floor, some of which Lance had already tried to mop up with the bath mat...  
The Cuban was ruffling his wet hair, staring quietly in the mirror, catching the glimpse of himself before the fog breathed on the cold surface and misted it up. 

If this was an ordinary day, Keith would approach his Fiancé; wrap his arms around the man and whisper teasing words into his ear, only to watch the gentle blush creep onto the boy’s lightly freckled cheeks. He’d steal a kiss before Lance could scold him, perhaps let his hands roam over warm skin, fingers under the towel just to cop a feel, the two losing themselves in the moment…

Keith moved closer, silently watching as the man pushed his hair from where the lengths had grown out, moving it away from the nape of his neck. The wound that lay like a tattoo between neck and body was now just a pale scar; a permanent reminder of Lance’s guilt and Keith’s eternal regret.  
Lance’s eyes lingered on the mirror’s imperfection, looking past, to Keith, his eyebrows knitting in an instant, mouth spitting words like poison. _“Fucking bastard.”_  
Keith couldn’t help but stare, his chest hurting, tightening painfully as he cast eyes over the man’s back. There were more scars covering his bister skin, fainter from the shallow cuts of shattered glass, fully healed but still obvious at just a glance. 

Forgetting for a moment, that the distance was to remain, the silence too, Keith took a step forward, his hand reaching out to the man’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. “Lance—” But just before Keith could touch him, the Cuban spun around. Keith pulled away in surprise, stepping back when he realised just what he had tried to do.  
The same hopeful look shone in Lance’s eyes, but again, it was gone before Keith had a chance to realise why it was there... 

Lance marched past the Mullet and back into the bedroom, ignoring him as if he wasn’t there.  
Keith just watched. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Watching. Waiting. 

Lance stood in the bedroom, movements robotic as he dried his hair with his towel, arms stiff when he threw that to join the rest of the washing in the hamper in the corner of the room. He moved to the walk in wardrobe, ignoring all of his own neatly pressed shirts and trousers ordered in a way Keith had never understood and probably wouldn’t. Instead of grabbing once of his own shirts, Lance bypassed the hangars until he pulled one that wasn’t his. It was Keith’s; one of those band-print shirts that he’d wear on lazy days, ignoring the pain splatters up one side when the pair of them had repainted the living room from cream to a beautiful pale blue, just so they wouldn’t have to buy a new sofa.  
That was Lance’s excuse, but Keith hadn’t minded the change. It made their house homelier and livelier. They had done it together, flicking each other with paintbrushes, messing about and taking twice as long to get the room finished. Allura had employed herself to get the place finished in time for summer, when friends were constantly invading for parties and sleepovers and binge watching TV like they were kids again and everything was perfect…

Lance finished pulling on the shirt, fighting his own limbs as he moved, hiding the scars and the thin layers of skin underneath the black material with less than noise. He finished dressing and was out of the room, the wash basket and Keith trailing behind him.  
They were downstairs without conversation between them, Lance disappearing to dump the laundry by the dryers, Keith returning to the sofa, mumbling thanks when Lance hesitated to let him pass. Lance ignored him. 

Silence was their companion, the intense regret as suffocating as they viciousness of arguments, angry voices and dark glares. But Keith would prefer it, if only they were speaking again, if only it got Lance to look his way, if only for a moment. 

Lance couldn’t stand the silence either. He was in the kitchen, trying to make himself a warm drink, some food to force into his system before his body repelled it and he was throwing up in the toilet. The radio may have been flicked on through muscle memory, or it’s because Lance hates the silence too. But he won’t break first. He’s too stubborn.  
They’re both stubborn, but Keith know if he breaks first and let’s go… Everything that was will be gone. 

Lance doesn’t hum along to the song on the radio, even if it’s one of his favourites. Keith knows. He’s bought Lance that CD for that, made sure it was in every single playlist when they went on long drives in the car, just rocking up to beaches and empty car parks for cuddling and kisses and _hands._  
There’s no more cuddling. No more kisses. No more hands, no words, no nothing just the emptiness of two occupying the same space, skirting around one another like they’re dancing over tripwires. 

Lance doesn’t hum along and he doesn’t dance. He barely cooks now, no more pancakes or full English breakfasts, no more soups or baguettes. Just a cup of scolding coffee and the mail from the door. He sits at the table, Keith taking the place opposite him if only to pretend for a moment that everything _was_ normal.  
For Lance, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t realise his body still moves, going through the motions when he makes himself another drink, discards the leaflets, pamphlets, the junk mail. He’s hungry he decides, Keith following the man’s actions as he opens the all-but-bare fridge. There’s cake, someone brought it round yesterday. Now it’s an impromptu breakfast, warmed in the oven while Lance grabs ice cream. It’s not healthy, it’s not Lance, but he’s eating and Keith will never complain about it. _Never._

It is when Lance is stirring the concoction of coffee in the cups that he forgets. Forgets everything and begins to hum, his foot tapping steady on the floor, the resounding beat as loud and powerful as Keith’s heartbeat, who watches with tears in his eyes.  
It was only when Lance forgot everything did he return to how he used to be. He looked alive again. He almost looked happy when his mind switched off and he took comfort in the mundane of cooking or cleaning or listening to the radio on full blast, just to piss off the nosy neighbour next-door… 

The Mullet could almost fool himself into thinking everything _was_ normal. And maybe, he could call out to the boy that hummed to the radio, to ask him how long breakfast would be and if he had enough time to shower. Or Keith could switch on the TV and settle into the couch to watch a random action flick, for Lance to moan at him because the radio was on and Lance hated it when there was more than one noise and he couldn’t concentrate, and there’d be a mini battle with Keith turning up the TV, Lance turning up the radio, back and forth, back and forth until they couldn’t hear anything… 

Keith felt his chest tighten when Lance returned to the table, bringing with him two cups of coffee, placing one in front of the Mullet and one for himself, milky white compared to Keith’s black brew. At least Lance wasn’t completely ignoring his existence.  
Then the oven was beeping and Lance grabbed the cake, threw it on a plate, sat down—

He stared at the second cup opposite him, eyes wide for a moment. It only took a minute for him to realise that he did in fact make it, Keith knowing not to touch it. This mistake happens all too often, and he knew what will happen, trying hard to hide the sympathy as Lance reaches out, trembling fingers, grabbing Keith’s coffee in Keith’s favourite mug.  
There was a moment in which he hesitated, pressing lips to the rim, eyes flickering to Keith’s chair. Then he threw his head back and drained the mug in one go; scalding his mouth and throat and lips, a poorly restrained sob breaking through. 

“Lance I’m sorry,” Keith said softly, but just like always, he was ignored.  
He kept his eyes away, eating his food in silence, conversation only between fork and bowl as they clinked and tapped with every second spoonful. Lance couldn’t taste it, his tongue was far too burnt, but that made it easier to eat. Hopefully he wouldn’t throw this up, he’d keep it down, he’d let his body take the sugar, take the energy from the food and fuel his body for another day. 

Keith missed how everything was before. He missed the talking and the fighting. He missed having the connection between the pair of them.  
He missed touching him, holding him, having him close, even if now he is in reach of his fingers. Keith missed pulling Lance to his arms after a heated argument and pinning the Cuban to his chest whilst he continued to rant about stupid things that meant nothing and everything to both, to neither.  
He missed it when Lance would finally calm down and hug his boyfriend back; the cute way he’d twist his arms around him, hands up into Keith’s Mullet that would always be the subject of conversation, the muffled insult whispered into his chest before the lift of his head and the gentle kiss that meant whatever argument had had them yelling was over, and they had made up.

Keith missed taunting the Cuban for his old lady chasing games that would sometime make a reappearance. Never serious, but enough that maybe it would raise an eyebrow, especially when Lance would be a gentleman to whoever’s eye he had caught. Keith missed the cute confessions and reassurances that would follow such notions, and the proof of love Lance would give, be it there and then in a passionate kiss, or later in a passionate dance of bodies and hearts beneath the covers. 

He missed the arguments that got too heated, when blows would be exchanged and the two would spar like teenagers fighting for the same girl, although they were fighting for each other. Keith missed flirting with the man, the closeness they shared, the way Lance would wiggle his hips just for him...  
He missed the hot nights they spent between the sheets and the dozy calm mornings that followed. Sometimes the rushed mornings when they slept in or the days the two of them would just spend in bed, because Keith was too wilful and Lance too alluring. 

He missed meeting Lance late at work, when the boy would still be at the studio, cleaning up after lessons or practising by himself in loose joggers and the crop top that always riled Keith up. His impromptu visits were what spurred Lance to by the couch in his office, but it wasn’t always where the two would “catch up” after a long day. Sometimes they’d ditch the car and walk home, taking the long way through the park just so they could talk about this, that, anything without the bore of chores getting in the way.  
If not the walk, then Keith missed the drive home together, when Lance would rant about rude parents that didn’t quite get it, or when he’d gush about the kids that were finally getting it, or a new song he’d heard on the radio that he _just_ had to choreograph a dance to.

Keith missed teasing his boyfriend about him wearing makeup, the perfection he poured into his cooking when everyone came around for the big feasts and barbeques he liked to host, how Lance nominated himself Cook and continually being kept in the kitchen to cook endlessly for Shiro and Adam when they came around with the others.  
He missed the man doting on Allura’s daughter like she was his own and giving his lady-love advice to Coran and the endless joking with Hunk and Pidge. He actually missed watching his idiot boyfriend swooning over Allura, although that had lessened a lot once the older girl had found herself a respective partner – one that Lance approved of, of course. 

Keith missed everything, but most of all, he missed Lance. The glisten in his eyes when he’d see the man watching him without either realising. The relaxed smile he would offer when he was stressed, just to thank Keith for being there for him, the smile given just for him. 

The man’s nimble fingers that Keith would lace between his own sturdier ones. The man’s legs, which would lace around Keith whilst they made out. The way they’d link together behind Keith’s back as the Mullet picked the Cuban up, pressing him against a wall to push them closer. The indescribable urge they share to become closer, to become one. 

Lance.  
He missed Lance.  
But no matter how much he missed Lance, it wouldn’t change anything—  
“Lance, babe, please look at me. Lance….” Keith said suddenly, the urge inside him too much to ignore. Lance flinched at the sound of his voice, but didn’t look up. 

_“Lance, please.”_

But Lance wouldn’t look at Keith. Never again.  
Because no matter how much Keith missed Lance, or Lance missed Keith, despite his anger, his guilt, his regret—

Lance wouldn’t ever look at Keith again.  
Because Keith was dead.


End file.
